The Novel

I sit in corner dimly lit

With volume held in hand,

Prepared to span the depths of it

And chart yet unknown lands.


Perhaps a dragon in his lair

Is hoarding stolen gold;

Or boldest prince and maiden fair

Fight ancient demons old.


On pages worn, there live such beasts

As speak with tongues of men; 

And hidden gardens lost beneath

The moors and heathered fen.


Such grand adventures readers may

Live oft, inside their minds;

Such portraits books and tales do paint, 

And propagate their kind.

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